Lost and Found
by secret agent sara
Summary: After the Fall. The years John has to go through from having lost something to finding it again.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything, it belongs to the trolls by the names of Moffat and Gatiss.**

It had been a day. Just one day. John still thought he would find him sitting in the flat. Sitting on the sofa. Doing an experiment. Playing the violin. Texting someone. Watching out the window. Trying to find something out of his pile and pile of mess. But, when he opened the door only silence hung in the air. Then, John remembered. Sherlock would be sitting in the flat. He wouldn't find him looking through his microscope. He wouldn't come home to a fridge full of body parts. He wouldn't hear the tune of a violin at a un-godly hour. Never solve another case. John remembered Sherlock was dead and that's the way it would be until he did the same.

The first year is horrible. It's filled with silent tears and long sleepless nights. It's awful and painful because Sherlock is dead. He's dead and nothing John can do or say is going to bring him back. Everything to him is wrong. Food has lost its taste, beer has lost its lust, and sleep seems to be foreign. It's New Year's Eve. John doesn't know why everyone keeps telling him to be happy, celebrate the New Year. There's nothing _to_ celebrate. Everyone has told him to come over. No, they'll go over there. But, he just turns them down because he can't stand the sight of any people right now. They are probably smiling or laughing and having a wonderful time and they don't even know what has been lost.

What he has lost.

So, John sits. He waits while he sits. He's waiting for this night to be over and the year to be done because this was the year Sherlock died and John doesn't know how much longer he can stand of it.

Outside he can hear people yelling and cheering. He wishes to go out and tell them to be quiet. To not be happy. To tell them why they shouldn't be happy for the New Year. Because with every Year death comes closer and there is nothing any one can do about it. But he doesn't because he knows that wouldn't be a good thing to do. So John keeps his feet firmly in place and sits. Listening to the people outside. To the creeks that come from the silent flat and the beating of his own heart.

221B Baker Street was never quiet. Now it always is. Never filled with sounds anymore. No more yells. No more violins. And certainly no more gun shots. John stays in the flat because he feels a need to. Mycroft has already paid for the next two years. He's told John that he will take care of him, and that he needs to help him in some way, shape, or form. John doesn't want his sympathy, but he doesn't want to tell Mycroft this. His brother is gone and that is hard enough. So John stays for Mycroft. No other reason. He often thinks about leaving because he doesn't know how long he can stay there without _him_ living there with him.

He's gone numb on the count down. He can hear everyone outside screaming. And the cheers when it hits the end mark. And something clicks when a girl yells out, "Until the next year!" Because the next year? And the next? And until he's dead as well? John didn't feel like crying because he didn't feel like anything. He just sat there thinking of how on earth could he spend the rest of his life with this ach inside him? He didn't know. And he didn't think he ever would.

John's phone buzzed and he nearly ripped his pocket off trying to get it out of his pocket. He didn't know why he had let his hopes get up as far as they did. Dead people don't text. They're dead. It's a text from Mycroft. 'Don't worry John, this year will be better.' He doesn't know how Mycroft, being Mycroft, would text that. But, it is New Year's Day now and John supposes anything could happen. He doesn't reply, half not wanting to and the other half not knowing what he would say.

Then suddenly John is looking around the flat. He is making an even bigger mess and is trying to find something. He doesn't know what but, something seems to be calling him. And finally he finds it. It's under his mattress; he had completely forgotten he had put it there. Perhaps it had been during one of his 'too drunk to remember' episodes. He holds the blue scarf tightly in his hands. A lump forms in his throat as he remembers trying to persuade them to let him keep it instead of it being buried with him, six feet under. They do and he had it with him for that whole month. Whether it was in his pocket or in his hands it was always with him.

John falls asleep New Year's Day with the scarf tightly wrapped around his hand and completely drenched in tears.

''

The second year is about to close, except this time John is standing in the kitchen on Christmas Day. He's not wearing his usual Christmas Jumper. Instead he is wearing a plain shirt, jacket and a pair of jeans. John realizes it is almost another year and he has lived this one having to Sherlock in it. He wonders how he has possibly gotten through it. Then it hits him once more Sherlock won't be there anymore and he should just get used to it. But he can't and that was that.

John no longer talks to anyone from Scotland Yard. He has no need to. Without Sherlock he had no place there. They wouldn't need the sidekick, they needed the real deal. But he was dead so there for the sidekick went along with him. He did try talking to Lestrade once or twice. But, the awkward pausing and silence between them seemed to last for the majority of the calls. There were so many things they could no longer discuss because their link was gone and it would never be fixed.

Mycroft decides to visit John this Christmas. He's at the door in his usual suit and umbrella, but this time he is holding a bottle of wine and something that looks like food, but John isn't quite sure.

"Hello, John. How has this year been treating you?" John just shakes his head and takes the food-looking…thing to the kitchen. When he comes back he stops short to see Mycroft by the wall. The wall full of bullets. His hand is running over the holes John couldn't bare covering up.

"I miss him, too you know. More than you would expect." Mycroft says quietly, turning to look at John. And now John is really looking at him. _Really_ looking. He has bags under his eyes. Ones that show the lack of sleep, John imagines he has these too. Mycroft's suite is not as tidy as it used to be. The edges are off and his pocket square doesn't look very…square. John nods and quickly looks away, not wanting to look at him anymore. He knew Mycroft had lost something but he himself was not lost without it. He wouldn't understand what John was going through, no one would.

"He wouldn't want this for you." Mycroft says, trying again at the conversation starters. John wants to punch him.

"Wouldn't he?" he throws back, not wanting to sound as cold as he did.

"John…" John looks at him. Mycroft has stepped closer, a softer look on his face. "He cared about you John. Really, truly, _cared_ about you. Anyone who saw you two together could see it. You have to have known this."

"I…" John clears his throat, it suddenly filling with cotton, "I don't know anything. Not anymore." Mycroft just sighs and closes the door as John tries to give him a smile for a good-bye. John can hear his light footsteps as he walks down the stairs and out the door.

Maybe an hour or two later John wishes he had talked to Mycroft. The flat is too lonely and quiet. It makes creeks that he can't help but notice. It's too still, too empty, too boring. Dull, unwanting, unfriendly.

John throws the food looking thing into the garbage. Container and all. He drinks the wine strait from the bottle.

''

The third year has come around. It feels odd to John. It isn't any more easy than it was the year before or the year before that, it just felt…different.

It's New Year's Eve again. John is spending time with, of all the people in the world, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper and her new boyfriend, Sarah and hers, Lestrade, and anyone who knew Mrs. Hudson {this mostly consisted of older people.} They were standing around, drinks in hands, smiles on faces. John's was fake. He didn't know how to smile normally anymore. He finds himself talking to an elderly man the reminds him of Sherlock. He has grey roots, but dark ends that curl. He is tall, but he's sitting so no one can really tell. But, his eyes are dark. Not blue. Just dark. John is listening to the man talk about how he wished he has lived his life differently than how he already had. John had to bite his tongue to keep the harsh and hurtful laughter from emerging from his throat. He just nodded, as if agreeing. There is a small knock on the door that catches John's ears.

Something to free him of this man and his constant complaining. At least he had lived to be that old. Have grey hair. Be able to wish he could live that long.

John sets his drink down to answer the door because Mrs. Hudson is taking care of Molly and her tears because her boyfriend has seemed to ditch her. John is still looking to Molly and Mrs. Hudson when he opens the door. It's the voice that gets him to turn his head.

"John." And there he is. He's the same tall, thin man. His hair is a bit shorter, the curls just now growing back. He is wearing a button up shirt that holds a deep green and a pair of black pants. His coat is around him, fitting like it always did. His eyes are still blue and his face still has those cheekbones.

"You're dead." John says bluntly.

"_John_" he says again. In that voice. The one John hasn't heard in such a long time. And suddenly John wants to cry, he wants to cry like he did on New Year's Day almost three years ago.

"John, who's at the door?" Sarah's voice calls. But, he doesn't answer her. John shuts the door and is looking at Sherlock, still not aware of what is happening.

"You. Are. Dead." He says again, stupidly, as if to prove to himself that he is not going crazy. He looks at Sherlock again. He's not as pale as he once was. But, he's dead and it does not matter what color his skin tone is because he isn't supposed to be able to show it off anymore. And now he notices he isn't as thin. He is more muscular than he once was. John turns to look at the door again then back at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes have not wavered from John's face this whole time. The piercing blue eyes were hungrily watching him, from not being able to see him from this close in years. He follows as John starts to walk. John is walking slowly, and he trying not to stumble or trip over his own feet. John walks outside, he is not wearing a coat only his jumper and the shirt underneath it. He doesn't shiver though. Not from the cold anyways. He wanted to get some air. He closed his eyes taking in a few breaths. John then turned to see Sherlock still standing there. John was half expecting him to be gone, for him to be just a figure of his own imagination.

"What are you doing here?" John says finally. He had about a million other questions. Who wouldn't have questions if they were standing on a street with a man who was dead on New Year's Eve? John watched as Sherlock, the Sherlock, struggled to come up with an answer. His mouth opened and closed a few times. He sighed and closed his eyes. They opened suddenly and were staring intently back at John's.

"Because you're here," Sherlock settles on. As if this explains everything and anything. John can feel the harsh laughter threatening to come out again. John coughs to make the feeling go away. John can only shake his head.

"It's been three years Sherlock! Three bloody years." John says, as if he wouldn't know. "This whole time, I thought you were dead. I thought you were gone and yet," he laughed bitterly, "here you are on New Year's Eve! Three years later!" John was almost yelling now.

"I know." Sherlock says quietly. He is hiding behind the collar of his coat. He watches as John steps forwards, Sherlock stiffens as he thinks John is going to punch him. He had seen this coming, he deserved it. But he is still relieved when John shakes his head furiously and steps father back. He can hear John muttering under his breath. Cursing and other things.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me! You were off living a life somewhere! You were alive and you didn't tell me! Me, that you were alive! Of all the things you done Sherlock this…this take the whole bloody cake!" he paused to catch a breath, Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but Jon kept right on, "Here I am trying to get over the fact that you're dead while you were living it up somewhere without even bothering to tell me that you didn't die!" John was breathing heavily now. He watched as Sherlock looked away from him. John shook his head, glaring at the man. The ach was still pumping through him as he started to walk down the side walk, he didn't care were. Just not were Sherlock Holmes was. He made it at least ten steps away.

"And you think these past three years have been easy on me, do you?" Sherlock asked after him. John turned to look at him. He saw Sherlock's face. It was hurt and blinking furiously. Sherlock was trying to throw out the memories he didn't need. That's what his brain always did. But, not this time. They just kept replaying. Over and over.

Two days after the funeral. He was in a bathroom. He was looking the mirror as he cut his hair. Removing the curls and making it short and then having to dye it blonde. It made him feel as if he was pushing Sherlock Holmes away and taking on this new role. But, of course had to. What other choice did he have?

4 months after he had been making his way across town and he decided to cut through the grave yard. But when he came around a tree he saw John. John was talking and looking down. He realized he was talking to him. Not to him, but to what he thought was him. Sherlock hadn't seen John in so long and this got the best of him, and he hid behind the tree watching until John said good-bye and walked off. It was little things like these that made Sherlock keep his mind.

Having to spend his days alone in a flat. Having to solve simple things, not getting the fulfillment he need from the big puzzles like police work or anything like that. The small things are what kept him from smoking and going completely insane. Although he was almost sure he was that already. John had kept a spot in his mind and train of thought. All things seemed to remind Sherlock of his doctor. He couldn't make a cup of tea without thinking of John.

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes longing to look closer at him. His body wanting to touch him, to make sure he was real. That he wasn't going to disappear into dust like everything else seemed to be.

"Because they weren't…" he stepped forward to John. Standing near him again just made him feel at home. John is looking at his face, that face that hasn't seemed to be out of his mind since he met him. The thin face with the cheekbones. The face he really wanted to give a good punch to, if he could force them to move. They were frozen like the rest of his body now. He shivered not. And of course Sherlock noticed this…

"Well, that still doesn't make-" he was interrupted by the shouting of the count down in the flats and shops around them.

"5! 4! 3! 2! 1! Happy New Year!"

John looked back to Sherlock who was right in front of him.

"Happy New Year John…" he whispered before bending down and placing his lips on John's for a kiss. It was only a moment's shock before John was kissing him back, he grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket with a desperate grip. Telling him that he wasn't letting him go, not this time, and not ever again. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, telling him that he wasn't going any were, at least, not without him to come along. John is warmed, not cold anymore. His shivers are gone and he no longer feels the cold. Just Sherlock. It's John who pulls away, they are both looking at each other. And John is smiling, actually smiling. It seems that Sherlock has brought the memory of how back to John.

"Come on," John says, taking Sherlock by the hand, leading him home. "We have a lot to go over."

"Yes John. Three years' worth…" Sherlock grins, pleased by this. John sighed knowing it would only be a month before he would be screaming bored again. Out of cases

But now John had a few things he could do now to keep Sherlock busy.

**A/N: I needed to get this out before Sunday. Most of all I'm scared for John this episode. More than anyone else John is what is going to be eating me alive. But, thank you for reading! I'm sure it isn't good...**

**UPDATED A/N: Ugh, it's been a week and I'm still not recovered. AND YES THANK YOU ANON! brilliantdeduction was it? I had seen their post, indeed they did inspire this. I had been trying to find what their blog had been but I lost it through tumblr. Thank you! **


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